Holiday routine, the New Year is here.
The George M. enters her 21st year.
The best time of life for many a girl,
But the years have been hard on this once
shiny pearl.

She’s gone many a mile, towed many a net,
And caught more damned croaker than you’d
ever bet.
Some times it’s lobster, some times it’s shrimp.
From Hatteras to Texas, along she still limps.

With rot in her gunwales, her keel bolts all loose
The sign in the head “Flush three times after use.”
She leaks like a sieve, all her fastenings are
rusted.
The main boom is bent, the Loran’s always busted.

The main engines tired, over 8000 hours.
The shafts got a wobble, that’s par for the Bowers.
The gen-sets are noisy, they sputter and smoke,
While AMC tells us “Sorry, we’re broke.”

With the hog in her backbone she thunders along,
At a blinding 9 knots (when the current is strong).
She’s a tired old lady, she’ll bring you to tears.
Come on George M. Bowers, just three more years.

She heaves and she pitches, she creaks and she
groans.
Down in the foc’s’le the scientists moan.
She dips her outriggers, she strains at her
garters
As we yell out our motto “Thank God we get quarters.”